


Death's Son

by icarus_chained



Category: Highlander: The Series, Supernatural
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Crossover, Fic fragments, Gen, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:30:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Couple of small crossover ficlets where Immortals are the children of angels, and Methos is Death's son</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Father & Son

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I have crossed HL with _everything ever_ , why do you ask? *shakes head at self*

"The world's ending again, I see."

The oldest immortal slipped casually into the booth opposite his father. The gaunt figure didn't look up, bony fingers occupied in dissecting a pizza. Methos shook his head wryly, and waved a waitress over to order a beer.

"The world is always ending," Death said at last, cold eyes flicking upwards briefly, a thin smile curving narrow lips. "Each life its own world, and to each world its own ending. They are never free of me."

Methos mulled that over, mouth twitching around the neck of the bottle. "Not bad," he allowed finally, a small grin flashing. "Might use that, if you don't mind. Pearls of wisdom to spread, proof of my advancing years."

"Not at all," his father smiled, more truly now, Death to Death. "What are fathers for, save to impart wisdom to their sons?"

Methos paused. Looked out the window, out on the world, the warzone, the ending, where angels fought and died, and immortals too, never knowing what they were to each other. "To fight and die," he said quietly. "To play games without meaning, and never know the truth. To abandon each other, and find each other, and play games with sons and daughters for the pieces." He shook his head, old and tired, young beside his father, the oldest and last, but still ancient. Still knowing. His father's son.

"And when they fall, I will gather them," Death said to him quietly. The only real comfort he had to give, to a son that had seen him in all his guises, in all his cruelty and his gentleness. "When you fall, too. Methos. My son. When you fall."

Methos grinned, then. A lightening, a leavening, a flashing hint of mischief. "But not yet, father mine," he laughed, ancient survivor, Death's echo and his opposite, ever in love with life. "Not just yet."

And in response, Death only smiled.


	2. First Death

"So. You're one of the stranger things Dad's dropped on me in his time."

Gabriel blinked, struggling towards consciousness against the pain in his chest and the nagging impression that conscious, right now, was something he really, _really_ didn't want to be. Unfortunately, tearing agony or not, curiosity really did kill the cat. And the archangel. And a few other things besides.

"Mrrrfff?" he asked, intelligibly, and managed to screw his eyes open somewhat. Not that it _helped_ , overmuch, but he was sure the blur of light and colour would resolve itself eventually. Into an amused, vaguely sympathetic expression, on an unfamiliar face, but at this point, he was taking what he could get. "Mpf. Wha' happened?"

"Haven't a clue," the stranger cheerfully informed him. And then gave him one of the most professional squint-eyes Gabriel'd ever seen, and smiled lopsidedly. "Though, given the gaping hole in your chest, and the fact that Death himself dropped you off, I'm going to take a wild guess, and say you died." 

The pain surged as though by command, and the stranger's smile grew softer, something dark and knowing in his eyes as Gabriel's hand flew to his chest and the edges of a wound carved by a brother's sword, as Gabriel's face paled, and memory came rushing back.

"First death?" the man asked him, gently enough. "It takes a while, I know. No-one ever sees it coming, the first time."

Gabriel didn't answer. Couldn't answer, eyes screwing shut, gaping chest hitching as lungs that didn't need to breathe struggled desperately around a sob nonetheless. His hand tightened, fisted, smeared itself in his own blood as he pressed, unconsciously, into the wound. Into the evidence, the proof. His chest heaved, feeling the fluttering pulse of blood around his fingers, and he cried, softly, a keening sound he couldn't quite believe was coming from his own mouth.

And then, a pale, slender hand wrapped around his own, white fingers slipping through his reddened ones, and the stranger was there. Touching his face until Gabriel's eyes fluttered open involuntarily, hand tightening about Gabriel's and pulling it, firmly, carefully, out of the blood.

"I know," the man said softly. "Shhh. I know. It's always like this. It's okay. It'll pass. It'll pass."

"He _killed_ me," Gabriel gasped, softly. Desperately, clutching tight, drawing the other near, an archangel's strength compelling the closeness. "He _killed_ me. My brother. He killed me."

Something flickered across the man's face, some shadow of something past, lines carving themselves softly about his eyes. He didn't flinch from the strength of Gabriel's grip, didn't shy from the naked pain the archangel knew was in his eyes.

"I know," he said quietly. Meaningless, because he didn't, couldn't, wasn't there, but his eyes weren't lying, the darkness in them wasn't false. "They do that. That happens." A small, strange smile, and Gabriel knew, suddenly, that this thing before him was ancient, as ancient as he. "We're born in violence, you know. Children of the gods. That's how we come to be."

Gabriel's breath hitched. A sob, perhaps, or an abortive chuckle. Children of the gods. Angels and demons, and _yes_ , they were born for war, he knew, he'd always known, but not _him_. Not his brother. He'd never thought to die by a brother's hand.

"Who are you?" he asked, clawing back from a brother's pain, tightening bloodied fingers in a stranger's hand. He could feel the wound begin to close, in his chest. He could feel the absence beneath it grow only larger. He shoved curiosity into the breach. He had nothing else. "What are you?"

The man's face split into a smile, a grinning thing, dark and distant, and the Trickster in Gabriel clawed suddenly to wakefulness, swung suddenly to light. The stranger grinned, a softly darkling thing. 

"Methos," he said, simply as a summoning, as the commanding of a name. "I'm Methos. An immortal." That lopsidedly smile, that squint-eye that looked so casually into Gabriel's soul, and judged him mildly amusing. "Nephilim, I think you call us. Sons of gods and angels. Or, in my case ..."

And Gabriel remembered, the crackle of his wakening, and the first thing he had heard ... 

"Death," he said, and tried not to acknowledge the faint tinge of awe. He was the most jaded of all the archangels, the most cynical being in Heaven or Earth. He'd stood in judgement over kings and paupers both. He'd no call to be impressed by a potent lineage. Even ... even that one. "Your father is Death. And he ..."

Methos grinned at him, sitting back on his heels above an archangel, fingers tangled tight with Gabriel's, and blood still on his hands. "As I said," he mused, watching Gabriel with twinkling eyes, "you're definitely among the stranger things he's dropped on me in our time. And it's been a _long_ , long time."

Yes. Gabriel could imagine.


End file.
